


Is The Sun Still Rising?

by leahsmindpalace



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (TV 2018), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Artist Grantaire, Character Death, Drug Use, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Modern Era, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Poor Enjolras, Recreational Drug Use, Sad, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2020-12-15 22:20:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahsmindpalace/pseuds/leahsmindpalace
Summary: Grantaire's death, as told by Les Amis.-He opens the door. He turns the light on. He looks at the canvas.It had been a full two months today since Grantaire died, and Enjolras decided that every evening before he went to bed he'd do these three steps.





	1. 60 Days Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was originally a stand-alone chapter, but I decided to make a whole story of it. Each member of Les Amis will get a chapter written from their own perspective and detailing their experiences regarding Grantaire's death and situations surrounding it. Hope you enjoy! Please leave a comment. xoxo

He opens the door. He turns the light on. He looks at the canvas.

It had been a full two months today since Grantaire died, and Enjolras decided that every evening before he went to bed he'd do these three steps. The canvas that sits in the room is blank. White. Where once was a portrait of promise now sat a dust-collecting reminder of finality. The paintbrushes scattered on the floor tell of fragmentary dreams and unfinished business. Every once in a while, a commission would call in and Enjolras would have to tell them the bad news. Their half-completed paintings line the wall of the small room.

He didn't exactly know why he felt the need to step into Grantaire's art studio every night. Maybe it was because if Enjolras saw that he wasn't in there, it would help him accept it. Or maybe it might help him because it was his way of saying goodnight to his late boyfriend. Maybe it was a way of remembering R in his corner with paint-speckled hands, his tongue adorably pressed between his lips in sheer concentration as he painted. Enjolras would rather remember that warm sight than how Grantaire was when he found him - cold, a needle loosely held in his hand. 

Enjolras pinches his arm hard, trying to reject the memory. He knows that this likely isn't a proper way to deal with trauma, but he does it anyway. Just like anything else in life, he's trying to come up with ways to work on this independently and effectively. So every night he does his steps and prays that he can get a little relief from the burning in his bones. 

Enjolras feels stuck. He feels so alone yet so bothered. One of his friends show up each night with a meal for him, even after all these weeks. He doesn't want to eat, though. He wants 'Taire. He doesn't want to be asked how he's doing. Day after day it's all the same, and after a few minutes, he steps out and goes to bed. 

Every day carries on, and Enjolras finds it difficult to believe that the sun is still rising each morning. But it does. It does, and he trudges through the day, angry at the world for not grieving the artist. 

He opens the door. He turns the light on. He looks at the canvas.


	2. Combeferre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's perspective. I hope you enjoy angst as much as I do. xoxo

I was already working my shift at the hospital when I heard the news. I thought it was "another overdose". But once I saw the face of the curly-headed patient I got told to sit down because I looked pale, and someone (it escapes me who exactly) asked if I knew the patient. "Grantaire." I simply whispered, shocked. Because I knew the patient, I wasn't permitted to take part in the physical examination, or confirming there was no heart activity. I didn't want to perform any of that anyway. 

I hadn't come to work expecting to see one of my dear friends deceased on the stretcher 34 hours into my 48-hour shift. I wasn't thinking about my aching feet or the fact that some lady spit in my hair earlier, I just walked quickly to the waiting room. There, by one of my colleagues who was sat with him, I saw my best friend, head buried in his knees and body silently shaking. "Enjolras." I say, knowing that I won't make anything else out to say without losing my composure.

"Combeferre!" Enjolras lept up from his seat and wrapped his arms around my neck in desperation. "Oh my God, 'Ferre, oh my God, oh my God!" He sobbed loudly into my shoulder. 

I knew that there was absolutely nothing I could say that would make him feel better, so I decided to just hold him in my arms until he could speak.

Later, the coroner's office was called and at around 4:00 a.m., I was sent home, despite not being close to done with my shift. I gave Enjolras a ride back to his place, after asking him a dozen times if he wanted to come to mine.

"Hey, ehm…I'll make the phone calls, okay?" I tell Enjolras. 

He sniffles, grief all over his face. "Thank you, 'Ferre." He says, more tears spilling over, down his swollen and patchy face. There was a little red spot in his eye from where a blood vessel burst, and I felt a pit in my stomach knowing that it was from him crying so hard. 

"Of course." I choke out and then cleared my throat, not wanting Enjolras to see me cry. "Call me if you need anything, okay? My phone will be on full volume. And I'll be over later after I make these phone calls, alright?" 

The blonde nodded and got out of the car, walking into their building. 

I decided to wait until I got home to call everyone and tell them the bad news, but I couldn't get halfway there before I pulled over, eyes beginning to blur with tears. How was I going to look my sweet Courfeyrac in the eyes when I got home, and tell him that Grantaire overdosed? The sobs that began to wrack my body were painfully deep, and I wondered what I could have done better. 

Could I have referred R to more treatment programs and support groups? I dealt with addicts all the time. Did I reach out enough? Did I talk to him enough? Did I treat him as more than just… Grantaire?


	3. Courfeyrac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this really quickly so if you see any typos please let me know lol thnx xoxo

I heard the door creak and smiled a bit. My fiancé was home, which meant I must have slept in. I pick my phone up and check the time. 

With furrowed brow and worry in my heart, I trudge my way out of the bedroom. The only two times Combeferre had ever been allowed to come home early was when he had the flu, and when something terribly traumatic happened during his residency, which resulted in his first lost patient. This couldn't be good.. "Why are you home so soon, lovebug?" I ask him. 

He sits down and motions for me to sit beside him.  
"Courfeyrac…" He starts, and I catch a glimpse of his eyes. He'd been crying. "Courf, I have bad news." 

My stomach drops. "What? What is it? Is Grantaire okay?"

I don't know why I said that. It's just that gut feeling, you know? A gut feeling along with the fact that our friend was struggling worse than ever with his addiction and staying clean. Relapse after relapse came and went, and we all cheered him on relentlessly. 

Combeferre hides his face in his scrub top, exhaling heavily as he rubs his eyes. "N…no. No, he isn't. He overdosed. Around four o'clock." He said, looking back up at me slowly.

"Wait, but…" I tried to reason. Overdose doesn't always mean death, does it? "Is…is he gone?" 

Combeferre stayed silent and just wrapped his arms around me. "I'm sorry, Fey." He said gently. 

I cried and cried and cried. I feel like I never stopped. "We were going to go to lunch on Friday. This can't be happening! This can't be fucking real!" 

"I know, sweetheart, I know." Ferre tried to comfort me, and I felt tears drip onto my own shoulder as well.

I was thankful for him being there, and immediately had the heartbreaking reality that Enjolras didn't have his person to go through this with. Which for sure made me cry even harder. "Poor Enjolras!" I sobbed, but pulled away. "How is he?" 

"Handling it better than I would." Ferre admits, sniffling. "I dropped him off at home before coming here. I, ehm, I told him I'd call everyone to… to tell them. I didn't want him to have to do it." 

For the next two hours or so, I laid in bed and listened as my sweet man, already tired from work, called all of our friends and consoled each one after telling them the news. I kind of just stared at the ceiling and listened, but after a while it turned into a blur of trying to make something horrible sound not-as-horrible that I just tuned out. I was still having trouble processing all this. 

I remember when I first met 'Taire. We were in high school, and I noticed he drank a lot more at the parties we went to together. A lot more than anyone else. But then it turned to him always having a flask in his pocket. I remember when he punched me the first time I asked if he'd "had a problem". I never asked him anything like that again. 

But oh, how I wished I had. No punch or threat or fight could compare to the feeling of finding out Grantaire had gone too far this time, that Enjolras had found him dead, that we'd never see him again, that me and him wouldn't be getting lunch on Friday. Nothing.

I felt fresh hot tears spring up in my eyes, and Combeferre came to lay by me, pulling me close. I held onto him, desperately grasping for comfort. He fell asleep in my arms, sheer exhaustion shutting everything down. Most days, Ferre would smell like the hospital and I'd not-so-politely ask him to shower, but I didn't care at that moment. I felt like all of my senses were completely numb. I needed to hold onto him and he needed to hold onto me. This was unreal, and I just wanted it all to be a bad dream. Poor Enjolras. Poor Grantaire.


	4. Jehan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song "Sorrow" by Sleeping At Last while I wrote this, so if you wanna listen to that while you read it might be...fun? 
> 
> As always, I'm too lazy to re-re-rescan for typos, so if you see any, let me know. 
> 
> xoxo

_Hot as it runs through your veins_

_ The love of your life in pain_

_ He can't catch his breath_

_White hot kiss of death_

_Leaving friends behind_

_You were always high_

_And always on my mind_

_The days as mere children we'd laugh and play_

_ But the child inside of me has died today_

_It went with you_

_Now my joy goes cold_

_You were far too young_

_But we were far too old_

_To play and be reckless like we had before_

_ I left you alone at the party_

_Searching for more_

_Something more to make you feel alive_

_But the children inside of us have died_

_ I love you and I miss you and wish you the best_

_Despite the hollowness in my chest_

_I want to say goodbye, but I'll never get that chance_

_White hot kiss of death_

_White hot dance_

_You and the devil_

_Where is your soul?_

_You gave up your power, you gave up control_

_Now you have nothing, here in the end_

_I love you and I miss you_

_You're my dearest friend._

_'Grantaire' by J.P._

I put down my pencil and sigh to myself. No amount of poetry can describe the pain that I feel or the insurmountable weight on my shoulders. I wish so terribly that my Montparnasse was home right now.

I watch the sunrise like I do most mornings: sitting on the sofa with a mug of green tea. It rises differently today and I truly cannot tell if it is the sunrise itself that seems less spectacular, or the frame of mind with which I watch it rise. The golden light seems so empty as it starts to gently touch Paris with morning. I cannot possibly comprehend it, nor can I comprehend the news I heard less than an hour ago from the dear doctor that called me.

We all knew Grantaire had a problem the last year, and that it was far worse that the drinking that preceded it. This was worse than anything we'd done as teenagers. Though we'd smoke weed and do other things that ridiculous teenagers do to feel alive and to lessen the pain, we never thought about a needle. We were "too smart" for that. At least I'd hoped we were.

I remember being infuriated at R when I first saw the track marks on his left arm. He told me that I didn't need to worry, that everything was fine, and that he was being safe. He told me that everything was not so black-and-white, and that I should worry about myself first. I believed him.

I sip my tea, not really caring when it scalds my mouth. The temperature outside went from barely-warm to bitterly-cold this morning, and I think it's rather fitting, the somnolent change in weather. As the sun rises fully and behind the clouds, the sky turns to gray and swaddles the city in smoke-billowed blankets.

Ferre, on the phone, said that Enjolras found Grantaire in his art studio. I look to the wall behind me and see his abstract painting for me hanging. I look at the details of the oil painting, studying the brush strokes. It was as though I could only see life when I looked there.

I don't really know how long I sat on the sofa, watching out that damned window, but I suspected it to be around noon. The little bit of my tea that was left had gone cold, and I still hadn't cried yet. I was just beginning to grow anxious now, wishing Montparnasse would come. I'd called him fifteen times now, and it was getting ridiculous.

Didn't he love me? Didn't he know my best friend was no more? Didn't he know that I hadn't let myself go yet because he needed to be there for me? Didn't he know the unfathomable sting that I'd felt? Didn't he know?

I feel myself start to get angry at Montparnasse. Didn't he know that several missed calls from your significant other meant something was wrong? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.


	5. Joly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly suffers a panic attack at the news of Grantaire's passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, tell me if I make any typos. 
> 
> Also, always cherish deeply any comments. Wink wink. 
> 
> xoxo

"Joly won't come out, Musichetta." Bossuet sobs on the other side of the door, voice troubled. I know he's worried about me, but I need to lock myself in our bedroom. I need to get away from the world.

"He needs time, love." I hear her tearfully say to him, "He'll be okay." 

Beyond my own heaving breaths, I hear them both sobbing in each other's arms.

This has to be a sick joke or another one of my delusions. It has to be. Except this time, everyone is crying with me. So I know it's real.

I can't breathe. My lungs feels like they're filling with blood and I'm drowning. "Not happening, I'm okay." I whisper to myself, breath seeming to come quicker and quicker. My vision of the dark bedroom is spotted with white, and my hands and feet start to tingle, beginning to go numb. I clutch tightly to my cane, as if it is reality itself about to timber to the floor. 

I'm not used to processing information like this. I'm not used to hearing that someone I love has died, and especially in such a terrible way. Suddenly my clothes begin to feel too tight, like they're going to smother me to death. Broken sobs make their way from my chest. "I'm okay!" I choke out to absolutely nobody, because I couldn't even convince the people around me that I was. None of us were. 

I take off my shirt, hoping that the tag will stop pushing me further and further into my spiral. My heart starts the usual palpitations, and I place my hand on my chest, feeling myself breath raggedly. I start to feel dizzy, and I can hear my heart beating loudly in my chest. I go to the door, and open it in case I get too bad, they could get to me. I go back and sit on the floor as the bed would be far too stimulating for my anxiety.

"Joly, love, do you need help?" Bossuet asks me. He'd at the very least regained his composure, standing in the doorway of our darkened bedroom. 

"N-no! You can't take me to the ER, th-they'll just do like they did last time and order an echocardiogram. I don't have any heart problems, I just...I wanna breath!" I cried, feeling so angry at myself for not being able to stop this. "I want Grantaire!"

"I know." Bossuet says, tears still streaming down his face.

His best friend, other than me and Musichetta, just died and he has to put up with me. The thought that I'm making this about myself plagues me with even more anxiety, and sends me further into my spiral. 

"I'm sorry. Bossuet, I'm so sorry! I'm s-sorry he's gone, I'm so sorry!"

Bossuet just takes me in his arms and keeps me there until I learn to breath again.

I do. I count myself as lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is next?
> 
> Éponine or Montparnasse? You decide!


	6. Éponine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine does emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am again almost one year later, fam! I was busy getting engaged and married and living in the middle of a worldwide pandemic. Haha. Enjoy! And THANK YOU for reading!

When I got the phone call I tried my best not to scream expletives into the phone at Combeferre, but my reaction to pain has always been anger. Jehan told me that anger is a secondary emotion, that there is always something felt first and that I should try to tune into myself and find it, but I couldn’t tell what it was first: pain, betrayal, fear...? All of the above? 

“Thank you. I-I’m going to hang up now.” I said, though it barely comes out in a whisper. It’s all I had said other than my greeting when I picked up the phone.

I feel myself start to boil and I try to breath evenly, trying to not be angry.

No. I can’t not be angry. This can’t be undone, no matter how much meditation and shit I do.

“STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!” I scream, tears pooling in my eyes as I throw something heavy (I don’t remember, it’s kinda all a blur) at the big mirror in my bedroom. It shatters and I cannot get past this, so I just keep going through my bedroom, then the kitchen, and so on. I keep destroying until I stop screaming, and until there’s nothing left to break; until I feel like most the rage has left my body. 

At last I collapse onto a pile of pillows, books, broken dishes, and just started to cry. I really cry now. No more screaming, just sobs that make my chest feel tired. My eyes make their way across the rubble of my grief, and I notice Grantaire’s self-portrait had a hole blown through it, presumably from the corner of a book or something I’d thrown in my fit of rage. Instant devastation and disappointment recharge my cries. “I ruined it, I’m sorry!” I exclaim, though barely audible. I hated Grantaire right now, but I hated myself even more for ruining his painting. I still remember when he gave it to me.

“Sorry, it’s not very pretty.” He’d chuckled, finally bringing it over to my place after texting back and forth. “Thoughts?”

I had to say, it was the worst painting Grantaire had ever done. It didn’t look like him even though it was supposed to and even though portraits were something he was exceptional at. The scar above his eyebrow was magnified and he made his nose bigger than it was. Though R’s was a pretty common nose for someone of Iranian descent, he’d painted his own to be huge. It was one of his biggest insecurities, I think. He made the dark circles under his eyes much darker and deeper than they should be and his curls were tucked behind his ear on one side, which I noticed were also slightly overdone. The scar on his top lip was deep, jagged, and dark though not very noticeable in real life. I know where that particular scar came from, though, so it makes sense that it’s magnified in his eyes. Though it had inaccuracies, it was still very realistic and you could see Grantaire in every stroke. “It’s beautiful, ‘Taire.” I wouldn’t fight him on it, telling him he didn’t look like that because in his eyes, he did. When it came to Grantaire you had to pick your battles, and this is one I wouldn’t win. I could just tell him that in spite of everything we both saw, I still thought it was fabulous. “It’s absolutely effing beautiful.” 

“Shut the hell up, Éponine.” He laughed, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment. “But thanks. Where do you want this monster?” 

“On the only wall big and empty enough to display it.” I rolled my eyes, gesturing to the spot above my sofa. He’d just moved in with Enjolras and their place was small and filling with art quickly. 

“You wanna actually...hang it up? For people to see?” R chuckled nervously, raising an eyebrow. “Like if you bring someone home and you’re ready to get it on, you want them to point up and ask who that is? Like what are you gonna tell them?”

“Okay, first of all, you absolute fucking knucklehead, I’m not sure how many people you think I bring here now that you’re gone, but...it’s none of their business anyway. I’ll just say it’s my friend Grantaire and I’ll tell them you painted that yourself. It’ll be great. Now hang it, I’m not paying you to stand around.” I smirked, gesturing again to the wall where I wanted my painting of R hung.

“Bitch, I’m giving this to you for free.” Grantaire laughs, starting to position it on the wall. And then he says, casually, turned away from me and making himself busy, “And thanks, by the way, for accepting it...”

My heart breaks all over again as I try to mend it back together, taping the fold of canvas that was smashed in back into place. “Please...” I whisper as I turn it around again. You could still see where it had been injured, but it was okay for the most part. 

Who was Grantaire to think he could do this? That he could screw around with drugs and not get hurt? To leave so many people behind so he could have fun, and scare so many people so he could go around and do what he wanted? Of course I was still angry, but as the secondary emotion faded I felt my heart sinking. I knew it wasn’t like that - him being carefree the whole time and living it up. He did what he did to try to get a taste of that.  
But Enjolras. Wasn’t Enjolras enough? Enjolras loved him the way any broken person could ever dream to be loved and cared for.  
Weren’t all of his friends enough? We all always told him if he needed anything he could talk to us. We were always there for him.  
But none of it was enough. 

As I laid in the pile of belongings that I called my flat, I felt my heart pull too many different directions. Anger, sadness, shock, denial. I decide to just go to sleep right there on the sofa, and when I wake up maybe everything will be back in it’s place, R will be alive, and this will all have been a bad dream. I lay down and stare at the ceiling, hoping to nap this all off. 

Not without hanging Knucklehead back up first, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think about me writing R’s death from his own perspective or from the Enjolras perspective of finding him, etc? Would that be too much?? Should I do them? Let me know! Feedback is always always appreciated!


End file.
